


Their Footsteps

by AstralFire



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Forgiveness, Gen, Moving On, Reconciliation, bros' sons broing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:17:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstralFire/pseuds/AstralFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darim finally returns to Masyaf and must learn to get along with Malik's son, Tazim, and also to rekindle the relationship with his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt fill for ye olde kink meme.

It had been a difficult task for Altair to get use to Tazim, the man standing across the Master's table from him. Tazim was the epitome of Malik when it came to looks, minus a few small differences inherited from a maternal side, minus the lack of a left arm: Malik's nose was there, Malik's dark hair (though Tazim's curled a bit on the ends), Malik's sharp and full brows, Malik's unimpressed and prideful gaze. The Malik that Altair knew in boyhood. The Master-Assassin-Malik that he spent days with in Masyaf. Malik. Malik. Malik. Malik.

Malik.

That was the night when Darim returned, and the air was still stifling from the day's sun-sweltering kiss. In all honestly, Altair didn't believe he would ever see his eldest son's face again, and he stood, shocked even in his old and wise age, behind the table when Darim stepped around into full view some distance off.

"Father," Darim said between the silence, pensively, "I'm home."

Not back. _Home_.

On the other hand, Tazim regarded Darim up and down with an inspecting eye, lips pursed, shoulders straight. He didn't seem remotely pleased about Altair's son's presence, and Darim frowned under the scrutinizing gaze. "So you're back when all is said and done," Tazim said, cocking his chin up. "Did you expect a welcoming party waiting for you?" Dismissively, Tazim turned back to the papers on the table, but caught Altair's disappointed stare. Quickly, Tazim was reduced to scolded silence, and he stubbornly but apologetically lowered his head.

"Welcome home," Altair said to Darim after some time. The Grandmaster lifted an arm, beckoned Darim over with a hand, but Darim shook his head. The simple rejection made Altair's heart constrict painfully, made him remember Darim's flee to the West, but he could not push reunion on the son whose eyes were dark, face just as tired. The look in Darim's eyes, though, Altair knew too well. Pride in an ornate vase held up in stubborn hands, only for it to be slapped out of the grasp and broken on the floor.

Darim left as quietly as he had come.

Later, in the early hours of the morning, Darim was returning to seek a private council with his father, but he found that Tazim was still adamantly there. (Did this man ever sleep? Better yet: had his status as son been replaced?) The two of them collided at the corner of the library, just before where the Grandmaster would typically spend his days in front of table and window. Tazim dropped a few scrolls, but he desperately clutched the rest of them in his arms and refused to bend down to get the fallen. Instead, he held Darim rigid with a distasteful stare. Darim stared back.

"He's asleep," Tazim snapped before Darim could ask. "He has no time to waste on a son who abandoned him and the Brotherhood during a time of great need— _twice_."

Darim clenched his jaw. What did this man know about him? What did this man know about all he had been through, in Mongolia for ten years, back here just before everything fell apart, in Alamut, mourning for his brother's loss, in the West? "I did what I had to do."

"And that was what?" asked Tazim irritably. "Think only of yourself? You didn't find him—Sef. He was dead. You"—and each word was punctuated by a bitter snap of Tazim's tongue—" _did not come back_."

"You don't know me," warned Darim.

Tazim scoffed. "You would like to think that, wouldn't you? A man is defined by his actions, and your actions have been nothing but coward-"

Angrily, Darim smacked the other scrolls out of Tazim's hand, and Tazim looked entirely taken aback. They stared at each other for a long time in utter silence, tense, Tazim's lips hard, and Darim's mouth in a twisted frown. "I could not come back," Darim said through his teeth, "because—"

"Because you were a coward," Tazim interjected.

"—I could not bear coming back empty handed, and then I left because my father was not my father any longer."

Tazim's eyes glimmered with something Darim couldn't read, but the man still did not look convinced in the slightest. "That is a pathetic excuse," Tazim said, and the ferocity even in his quiet tone clamped off any of Darim's retorts. "Does family mean nothing to you? Even when you learned that your brother was dead, you should have returned to Masyaf for your father's sake! Your mother, your brother: they should have been reason alone for you to return to offer support to your father after their loss, the father who raised you and protected you!"

As if slapped, Darim looked away.

Tazim's eyes darkened and his chest swelled with what could only be contributed to restrained rage. "It should have been _you_ coming to help him bring retribution to Abbas so he would not have fled to Alamut. You...." Tazim stuttered in frustration, at a loss for words to describe what he wanted. "You should have convinced and helped him to rebuild Masyaf when he came to you!"

"He would not have come back here," Darim said, voice low with defeat.

Glaring, Tazim leaned in close. "You wouldn't _know_ because you didn't _try_ ," he hissed. "This place was his home! He would have done anything to rebuild the Masyaf from his childhood! You take him for granted! You shunned him when he was hurting most, and I pity you for it. You don't know what it's like to not have your father."

"I do!" snapped out of Darim suddenly, and he looked back to meet Tazim's glare. "I did not have a father; he was taken by the Apple! By _ghosts_."

"At least he is not _dead_ like the rest of your family," spat Tazim, and that too was like a slap to Darim's face. Another smacking hand was raised, but Tazim caught it by the wrist with surprising ease. He offered it a squeeze of warning. "I am my father's son, not your father's son," continued Tazim lowly. "If you do not grow a backbone and stand at his side as you should then you can go cry back to Alamut and rot."

After that, Tazim was gone, and left behind a suffocating cloud of guilt and heartache in his wake. Darim almost physically choked on it, and he looked at the floor to find that Tazim hadn't bothered to collect the scrolls. He collected them instead.

It was another hour before Altair sauntered around into the Grandmaster alcove. The man was surprised to find Darim there, almost as if waiting. "Is something wrong?"

Darim managed a weak smile. "Is he always like that?"

"Who? Malik?"

Instantly, Darim frowned. He wondered if his father's mind was still being warped by the Apple, by old age. Tazim looked like Malik, but Tazim _wasn't_ Malik, and he wondered, painfully, if his father understood that concept. "He isn't Malik."

"No," said Altair with a lingering, regretful sigh. "He's not, but he wants to be called Malik. He has taken his father's name." Honor, Altair wanted to say. It was an honor.

Darim's lips parted to form a soft 'O' of surprise. With his own father still present, he often forgot the implications of remembrance, the idea of this 'honor' that came from taking the name of someone important (like a father). There wasn't much for him to remember in that sense, just his brother, just his mother, both so very different from the prestige of a father. He couldn't imagine himself being called Altair. Then again, he couldn't imagine his father not existing anymore either.

Suddenly, with a gnawing harshness at his stomach, he realized he had been a fool.

Darim opened his mouth, and then shut it again. Altair stared at him questioningly, but the only asking was done with those amber eyes. "Father, I—"

Altair raised a hand for silence. He already knew what Darim was going to do, going to say, and it might break him more to hear it after so long than it would if it was left unsaid. "Tazim," he said. "You should get to know him."

Unfortunately, getting to know Tazim was easier said than done.


	2. Chapter 2

Tazim was a recluse, and that was the only way Darim could describe it. He wondered if this was really Tazim, or if this was his father's friend living through Tazim instead. There was a wall there, always a wall, made of the toughest stone he had ever not-felt in his life. There was always sharp words, bitter words, a strong but faded shield of words that Tazim hid behind. (And Darim knew that it was hiding because he had often seen bits and pieces—secretly—of a softer side of Tazim: in the courtyard of Masyaf, feeding birds leftover bread; in the sparring ring with the few other Assassins, instructing them; sitting in the shade of a wall with a sack of dates, _laughing_ and _smiling_ with other Assassins' young sons.)

Tazim never smiled at him.

"He's not going to," Altair said from behind, and Darim jumped at the sudden voice.

In one quick motion, Darim twisted around on the stone floor and sprung to his feet. "He's not… going to what?" he asked, brushing his palms over his backside in an attempt to pretend like he hadn't been startled.

Altair knew better, of course. "He's not going to talk to you first," Altair repeated.

With a scoff, Darim turned his head back over his shoulder to regard Tazim in the distance with a few novices. "Anyone can see that."

"So," said Altair after a moment, tipping his head with an almost pointed indication. Darim just stared at him in confusion. "You have to go speak with him yourself," Altair continued. "That is what he wants, to know that you will be man enough to approach him."

Darim didn't seem convinced. "That's stupid… and backward," Darim pointed out, and Altair only shrugged one shoulder in reply. "How do you know that's what he wants?"

"Because," said Altair, turning to move back into the fortress in a wave of dark-and-white, "he acts just like his father." There was a pause. Altair had vanished from sight, but the man's voice lingered like any Grandmaster's should. "It won't be easy."

When was it ever? Darim wondered.

By the time the last novice had been ushered off, the sun was teetering just below the horizon in the distant hills of Masyaf. Tazim was folding a few dagger holsters over his shoulder to free up his hands for swords, and Darim slinked up from behind like an unsure fox.

"What do you want?" Tazim asked, and Darim was shocked the other man didn't have to turn around to know he was there.

"To talk."

"About what?" It was nearly infuriating how Tazim didn't turn around to talk face-to-face. The man just continued on about his work like nothing was happening, like nothing had happened. "Should we talk about how you haven't apologized to your father yet?"

"I was going—"

"Or perhaps we should talk about how you have been back for four days, but you haven't done an ounce of help with chores. You are Altair's son, though a terrible role model. We could also discuss your awful sleeping schedule—"

"Why are you—"

"—or the fact you take your meals in your father's room instead of getting to know the rest of the men, or"—and Tazim finally turned to level Darim with a condescending gaze—"we could even talk about how you spend more time watching me than you do watching over your own father."

Darim stared, and Tazim continued to stare right back, unfazed. "Excuse me?" Darim asked, raising both brows. "Are you my mother now?"

"Someone has to be, or you wouldn't get anything accomplished."

As humbled as he had been to Tazim's eye-opening words from before, he found it increasingly hard to continue to be polite when he was met with nothing but animosity. And for what, doing what he thought was right at the time? He went to find his brother, at his father's orders no less! Sure, he didn't return to Masyaf, but he was young, and he was scared, and he was just as hurt about the news he had received in Alamut from his sister-in-law. He wished he could, for once, just tell Tazim that, but something inside of him held him back. Pride?

"You don't know me," Darim said finally.

"You told me that before," and Tazim hadn't missed a beat. "You remember what my answer was to that too. All I do know is you never returned to Masyaf, and then you fled to the West after your father came to you instead." Tazim scoffed, folded another holster over his shoulder. "I can't believe the Grandmaster's son is such a coward. He must be so proud of you."

A small snarl rumbled out of Darim, and he narrowed his eyes. "And what of you?" he asked, continuing when he saw the small glint of surprise in Tazim's eyes. "You gladly sit on your high horse, condemn me for being a 'coward,' but I don't see you ever talking about how _you_ didn't help your own father." Something swelled in the both of them at the words spilled on the air—Tazim was insulted, and Darim was dizzy with having the upper-hand for once. "Malik is dead, and you didn't do anything about it. He was in prison for ten years—"

"Are you an idiot as well?" Tazim spat quickly. "I was a boy!"

"And you think I wasn't a boy still after returning from Mongolia?" Heat flared up against Darim's cheeks. The entire conversation was quickly turning for the worst, but he was too caught up in proving a point by turning the blame around. "You weren't that much of a boy when my father pulled yours out of prison! Where were you then, huh? Where were you, Tazim, when your father had his head removed in my father's home?"

The sound of dagger holsters clattering into the dirt was nothing compared to the howl of rage Tazim gave, the one that echoed around the silent sparring ring. Tazim jumped Darim with the ferocity of a wild cat, and the latter man welcomed the feeling of an impending tussle. Fighting with his fists he could do, fighting and killing was something he was good at, something he had been trained to do by his father. Where words failed him, he made up for it in strength, in the sharp eye he used with a crossbow, in the power behind a slash of a short sword.

The two of them rolled on the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust in their wake. Tazim tried to punch Darim multiple times, but Darim captured the swinging wrists in his own hands. He slammed Tazim into the edge of the sparring ring's fence, and Tazim wheezed from the blow. This, however, didn't deter the man from the fight, and then Tazim was suddenly kneeing him in the stomach, kneeing him in the shin, snagging fingers into his uniform. Both of them breathed in the sand, gagged, panted raggedly through their struggle, and exchanged blows that never seemed to be hard enough to do any lasting damage. They rolled across the dirt again, back and forth, hissing and grunting. Darim tried to stay on top so he could hold Tazim down, but one good buck of the other man's hips sent him tumbling over, coughing, into the dust.

This was not how Darim had planned for the conversation to go, not in the slightest. He wanted to talk, wanted to get to know the man who continually held that wall up to block out all outsiders. He hadn't wanted a fight, especially not one so chaotic and disorderly. "Stop!" Darim said, only to be severely choked by Tazim after being pounced. He grabbed at the wrists, tried to pry them away, but the hold was like a stony vice. "Tazim," he growled. The other man wasn't relenting. "Malik."

All at once, Tazim's fingers loosed, though they didn't draw away. "He spoke so highly of you," Tazim said, and his voice cracked. Tazim's face was twisted in seriousness, in a reserved grief that never seemed to spill over, only lingered there at the edge like a novice unsure of whether or not to take the Leap of Faith. "I don't know what he saw in you." And Tazim slammed a fist into Darim's chest. Darim took it without complaint, stunned. "All I see is a coward!" Another fist. "A man who left his father in the ditch!" Another fist, a little weaker this time. "I… couldn't save him."

The fist that came down the final time was nothing more than a faint bump, and all Darim could do was stare in surprise. With teeth gritted, Tazim curled his fists into Darim's uniform, leaned himself dangerously close. The look on Tazim's face was unguarded and raw, angry, bitter, and desperate all at once. Darim didn't move, too scared that doing so would send Tazim in a hasty flee, or, worse, another rampage.

"I couldn't save him," Tazim croaked. "I was too young. That is why… that is why you should have been there!" Something caught in Darim's throat; the words sunk in like heavy stones had been placed on his chest. "That is why," continued Tazim, "you should have come back, so that he would not have been alone at your house, so he would not have died!"

It dawned on Darim, in that moment, on just why Tazim was so upset with him. It wasn't because of his actions in concern with his father. Altair was powerful and wise, and he knew that Tazim knew this as well. Sure, a man can be broken, can be driven mad by a glowing and golden ball, but Altair still had the same fortitude regardless. None of this had been about that, though, about him staying in Alamut, about him venturing West afterward. This was about Malik, about Tazim's father, about how easy it would have been for the man to still be alive if he had only returned from Alamut after news of Sef's death. If he thought he was a fool before, he couldn't even describe the foolishness he felt now.

He could have changed the destiny of his father's favorite friend.

"I—" But what could he say? What could he even offer to Tazim (words, mere words) that would cauterize the wound, the betrayal that was left behind? Even if he found the words, he didn't think that he could even bring himself to voice them.

Exhaling a heavy sigh, Tazim sat up, released his hold on Darim's uniform. "Even now," he said, staggering up to his feet, "you are a coward." Tazim pinned the other man to the ground with an unbreakable glare. "You may be able to fight like an Assassin, but you are a coward where it really matters." Stepping away, Tazim quickly gathered up the holsters thrown about in the dirt.

"And where is that?" Darim snapped, sitting up on his forearms.

Wordlessly, Tazim headed back toward the fortress, holsters in tow, stride as determined and prideful as any other time. Halfway there, he threw a "Your heart," over his shoulder at Darim.

His heart. A coward.

Growling, Darim flopped back in the dirt and fisted his hands. He spent the better portion of an hour staring up at the sky, staring through the winking stars as if doing so would give him the answers he sought, as if the very act of gazing at the dark backdrop with its pin-pricks of God only knows what would bestow upon him the wisdom of many great men. He didn't get a bit of help when it came to philosophy.

What he did get, though, was courage.


	3. Chapter 3

Altair had been surprised to find Darim in his room, seated on a low stool as if waiting for a death penalty, fingers laced together between stiff knees, forearms resting on both thighs. His son was covered head-to-toe in the familiar garb of an Assassin, body strapped with short sword, with throwing knives, with pouches, with hood up and crossbow on. It was several days after the bump in the library, after the fleeting glances at Tazim, after the skirmish by the ring.

Slowly, Darim stood up.

"What have you done with my son?" Altair asked lowly, but gently.

The reply, a quirking edge of Darim's lips in the shadow of the hood, looked shockingly familiar, especially with a fresh and new addition to the corner of them. A scar, pink and angry. Fresh.

For a moment, the sight was regarded with silence. He thought, at first, maybe he was hallucinating from the Apple again. He thought he was looking at his own reflection standing in front of him, younger, a mirage of his former days when he believed things couldn't get any worse than they already were at the time. It wasn't an illusion, though. It was Darim. "Where did you get that?" and Altair pointed at his own lip as he asked.

"Malik," Darim answered, finally tipping his head up so Altair could see the face below the hood. "Now we match."

Altair's brows furrowed, pinching his face with an unreadable hint of emotion. The air of the room, hot as always, consumed him, and he couldn't tell if the flush up his neck was from the heat or something else. "We do." They stood quietly for a little bit, though their eyes never left each other. "I got mine from Malik, too," Altair finally whispered, too afraid his voice might crack if he raised it any higher. Not the same Malik, but they both knew that much already.

"How?"

Gently, Altair shook his head. "I will tell you later," he said reassuringly. "Why are you…?" and he nodded his head at his son.

Darim looked down at the floor again, looked at himself, looked at his hands. His shoulders tightened as they rolled back, body rigid with a trained posture. He looked up like before, had a sort of determined resignation on his face. "I'm ready," he said on an exhale.

"For what?" asked Altair.

A slightly shaky sigh escaped Darim's lips, but he held himself up straight, flexed his wrists by his sides. "Anything," he said, and then added, "I'm ready to help. I'm ready to be an Assassin again. I'm ready to help Masyaf become the way it was before."

Both of Altair's brows lifted, and he stared at Darim as if the man had said there would be a trip to the moon. He knew exactly who to attribute this change to, but the very presence of it was still such a surprise. Darim, the son who had raced away to find Sef and never returned. Darim, the son who lashed him with a sharp tongue for fumbling over names and places because of the Apple. Darim, the son who threw up his hands and galloped away on a horse in Alamut because he cried quietly for the hundredth time over his missing friend and wife and son. Altair wondered, in the back of his mind, if this is what Malik had felt that day in the bureau.

_…because you are not the same man..._

Finally, Altair nodded his head in approval. "You were always ready."

"No," Darim said quickly, "I wasn't. I was lacking something, but"—he straightened himself up once more, head high—"I have it now." There was a pause. "Dad."

Shocked, Altair snapped his eyes up, stared hard at Darim with a gaze that inquired what his hitched breath denied him the ability to ask.

Darim closed the distance between them with long, but slow steps, came to rest just in front of Altair, chin lifted, eyes soft. "I'm sorry," and it was such a quiet, yet strong whisper, something more genuine than any jewel perched in any crown or ring. And then he was hugging Altair, a strong embrace around the shoulders, something that he really had not done since he was a small boy. It was there between them, hanging on the hot and dry air much like grapes on a vine, waiting, teetering. _I love you_. Neither of them could say it, and the words instead exploded through the return of the hug, reverberated back and forth through their arms and chests.

Altair's voice just barely scratched the surface of speaking: "I'm not the one to whom you owe an apology," and Darim could swear on his life that his father was crying.

"He will get his," Darim said.


	4. Chapter 4

No matter where he looked, Darim could not find Tazim anywhere around the fortress, and he could not find anyone else who knew where Tazim was either. It was strange to have a worry he had long since felt curl up inside of his chest and press down on his lungs and heart. He had not felt this affliction since his father came to him in Alamut. Speaking of....

If the younglings around Masyaf didn't know where Tazim was, Darim knew his father would. Unfortunately, the only thing that Altair offered him was, "Assassins are still human." It was cryptic, but Darim took it with a grain of salt.

And then he began his search.

There was really no sign of Tazim in the village skirting the fortress, and only a few of the people had seen wisps of a Tazim figure moving about. Some said the man was gathering information, some said the man had left Masyaf altogether, and still others said that he disappeared like a ghost. Darim realized suddenly that listening to gossip was something he definitely didn't miss about being an Assassin. And so he stopped by the lake below the shoulder of the fortress to rest before continuing his search.

That is where he found Tazim.

The man was wading in toward the edge of the lake, feet and chest bare, pants rolled up to his knees. The sun had baked his already dark skin, making it more tan, brown and warm like light mahogany, and he stopped to squint in the light questioningly at the staring eyes of his brother.

"What are you doing?" Darim asked, sounding surprised.

Tazim merely raised his hand clutching a rope with a few small fish strung along the length of it.

Darim's voice still had amazement laced in it. "There's fish in there?"

Tazim rolled his eyes and sighed, bent to wrap the fish in a cloth in the shade of a rock. "You would know if you had been here, wouldn't you not?"

A frown creased Darim's mouth. "I thought you'd have gotten all that hatred out when you punched me."

Tazim stood back up, stretched a moment, and then checked the net in his hands for breakage. "That was just a small relief for my troubles, and it didn't last nearly as long as I had hoped. I should have given you a black eye to go along with it. The others—" Tazim lifted his head up suddenly and stared. "What are you doing?"

With a careless toss, Darim dropped the crossbow and other holsters down on the grassy edge of the lake. The Assassin hood followed, and then the sash and belt, then the outer robes. "Fishing," Darim said casually, toeing his boots off, bending to roll his pants up to the knees as well. When he glanced up in the process, Tazim's face was flat and not amused. "What?"

"Do you even know how to fish?" asked Tazim.

"It's not that hard."

Tazim huffed sarcastically. "Oh, 'not that hard,' he says. You are too confident. That arrogance will drown you in the lake before you even see one scale of a fish."

Smoothly, Darim rolled one of his shoulders, and then he rolled the other after. Still seeming confident, he flexed his arms back and forth once, twice. "I'm not worried. I swim like a fish."

"Surprising," countered Tazim, raising a brow, "considering that your father claims to sink like a rock."

Darim offered the other man a flat stare. "Just because he can't swim doesn't mean I can't swim. I am not my father."

"Clearly." Tazim lifted an inquiring look up at Darim. "But you are your father's son?"

After a second, Darim said, "I am."

That alone seemed to satisfy something inside of Tazim, and the man lowered his hands with the net. "Come then," he said, turning back toward the water's edge. "Teach a man to fish, and you have fed him for a lifetime."


	5. Chapter 5

"…and I went around the corner," Darim was saying, "only to run into these three Mongols with the ugliest faces. They were ugly enough to crumble stone, to dry up water, to make the sky weep in disgust." Even though Tazim was facing the net in the water, half-turned away, Darim could still see the slight smirk of amusement on the other man's lips. So he continued: "Three Mongols, thinking they could.... I don't know, make me piss myself by howling like dogs."

"They howled like dogs?" Tazim slowly looked up, head tipped in that way that said he didn't seem too convinced about this story's legitimacy.

Darim stared as if he were being accused of wrong-doing. "Yes!" he said, the toss of his hands making him sway in the water, ripple it outward from the trunks of his calves. Tazim shot him a reprimanding glance, and he hunched his shoulders up sheepishly. "I mean, yes," he said again, this time in a softer, quieter voice. "They howled like dogs when they spotted you, flashed their teeth like they were going to try to bite you instead of stab you."

"And did they bite you?" Tazim asked, clearly still amused.

Darim paused. "Well, no," he admitted, "but that's not the point!"

And that, it seemed, is what made Tazim finally laugh. It was only a chuckle, but it was still loud enough to be heard, loud enough for it to count as laughter, and Darim was surprised by the syrupy husk to it, by how devoid it was, for once, of sarcastic bite. As many times as Darim had seen or heard Tazim laugh, it was always from afar. Tazim had never laughed with him or even at him in that way. "What is the point then?" asked Tazim, lips curled still from the previous delight.

"That they're—" and then Darim stopped with thought before flopping his hands over in a dismissive gesture. "Nevermind," he said. "You're too young to understand the pleasure of having sweaty, smelly Mongol warriors swarming you."

"And that's different from having sweaty, smelly Assassins swarming me?" Tazim offered Darim a pointed look, and Darim seemed surprised by the correlation. Smirking, Tazim handed off one of the thick rope ends of the net. "Ready to pull?"

Nodding, Darim took the given end of the rope while Tazim twisted the other around a hand. Both of them bent themselves at the knees in preparation, inhaled the fishy but not entirely unpleasant smell of the water. Fishing from the shore with a pole and hook was a bit easier, and with a net, it was hard to deceive the fish into swimming inside. With two people, though, Tazim had explained, the net could be opened wider, could cover more ground across the lake. Thus, the fish would be unable to swim away like they could with just Tazim alone.

"One," Tazim counted off, raising his eyes to meet Darim's own.

"Two," Darim followed up, holding Tazim's gaze.

The hesitated tension that came before the end of sudden beginning swelled up in the air between them, seemed too quiet and still on the surface of the lake. All at once, they both shouted, "Three!" and took off through the water in wild, sprinting stomps. The net was big enough to allow them to branch out before swooping back in to make a circle, and Darim was surprised by how hard it still was to drag a thin net through liquid.

The two of them met at the end of the loop, cackling at their unsteady dance through the knee-high portion of the lake. Tazim's hand came up to press into Darim's chest, keeping them both from colliding in a mess of limbs, and they swayed together as the water crashed up against their legs. Four arms then began hauling the net shut, hauling it up out of the water so they could look over their catch. In all honesty, it wasn't bad for the lake snuggled just under the Masyaf fortress: four or so small fish, enough to go with the three caught before.

Tazim tried to take the net himself as they moved back through the water to the sandy edge, but Darim insisted with a firm hold that he would take it. A funny expression came to Tazim's face; however, he yielded his hold on the net and allowed Darim to tug it over a shoulder. It was Tazim who stepped out of the water first, and he turned around to help when he found Darim, instead, stalled just in the shallows.

"I'm sorry," Darim said suddenly.

The apology was so out of place, so awkward, that Tazim made a face. He opened his mouth to ask what the older man was sorry about, but then closed it. He knew what it was for, but it had been so abrupt and unexpected. _I'm sorry_ caught him off guard, and he felt entirely more embarrassed about it than necessary, as if Darim had taken advantage of his good mood. Hastily, he turned away. "I don't accept it," he said quickly, a hint of irritation in his voice. He could feel the pinch of a frown on Darim's face even with his back turned. "There is a time and place for everything. Now is not the time for that."

The water splashed as Darim came out, feet wet and soft in the sand, in the grass afterward. "Mal—"

"Take those to your father," Tazim interrupted. "The fish. Have them cooked and take them to your father, and give him your apology."

A tired, ragged sigh rolled out of Darim's chest. "I have already apologized," he said matter-of-factly, and Tazim snapped around in such surprise at the words. "I apologized to him this morning."

For once, Tazim looked a little guilty, but his eyes were turned away. Darim half-dressed in silence, and the younger of the two couldn't find any words to settle the uncomfortable air that had fallen between them. Taking up the net and fish, Darim moved toward the fortress once more.

"You can join us for dinner," Darim said after stopping, after sparing a glance back at the man who still wouldn't look at him. "If you want," he added, and then he turned to continue the climb to the towering building above them. Only then did Tazim look up from getting dressed.


	6. Chapter 6

Later that evening, it was Tazim who was knocking quietly on the door frame of the Grandmaster's room to let his presence be known.

It was almost difficult to eat with the accidental placement of themselves at the low-rise table in the middle of the room. It was almost difficult for Altair, that is, who had initiated the seating arrangement. He chose to sit solo on one side of the table, effectively putting Tazim and Darim together on the other, thinking hopefully that would bring the two men to something besides hooded glances and awkward arm movements for food. Altair realized his mistake only after he sat, quiet, and stared at the mirror images of his past across from him.

Himself and Malik.

Though Tazim was young, though Darim was older, the two of them fighting silently with their eyes and their body language were the spitting images of Altair and Malik. Prideful amber eyes and stubborn brown ones. Tanned skin reaching over white skin for things on the table. Looks that both bite with sarcasm one moment and then glint with a smirk the next.

Altair turned his head down at his food as Darim and Tazim looked up. The lack of conversation was as dry as the Syrian air outside, and Darim didn't know which of the three of them squirmed more beneath it.

"Two men have come from the West," Altair finally said, voice low.

Darim and Tazim exchanged glances. "Templars?" asked Darim carefully, but Altair dismissed the idea with a headshake.

"Not Templars," and Altair's voice was reassuring. "Polo." The surname felt odd on his tongue, sounded even stranger on the air. "They go by the name Polo."

"Father and son?" Tazim interrupted curiously.

"Two brothers," Altair corrected. "Niccolò and Maffeo." Tazim and Darim again exchanged glances at hearing such odd names. As if understanding their confusion, Altair said, "They are Venetian, from far West."

"Venetian?" Tazim repeated, looking a little more surprised. "That's Venice. Italy."

"They are explorers and merchants," Altair went on. He glanced at Darim. "I would like for you to greet them," he instructed. "Invite them here to see the library. You may show them around"—he looked at Tazim and faltered only for a split second on the name that was still so hard to say—"Malik."

If the stumble insulted Tazim, the boy made absolutely no indication of it, not even when Darim side-eyed him. "I will," Tazim said in acceptance, like it was a great honor and duty, like Mohammad or God had spoken directly to him with these orders. "Darim," he said, and his voice was stern because the older man was staring at him. "Can you pass me that bowl?" Tazim met Darim's eyes momentarily. "Please."

Later, when the moon was kissing the crest of the sky, Darim stumbled upon Tazim again unexpectedly. The secretive Garden that belonged to the Grandmaster wasn't entirely secretive anymore. It was, of course, still gloriously rich, but it lacked the whispers of Assassin women, lacked the hush-hush, lacked the all-novices-wanted-to-sneak-in. Those of the Order could come and go as they pleased now, and that is where Darim found Malik's son.

Honestly, Darim thought it was amusing to see Tazim fighting silently with a fussy baby. The swarthy-haired child couldn't be any older than one or two, and Tazim was having a time trying to quiet the ragged wails. Entertained, Darim leaned on the edge of one of the walls with his forearms, fingers laced, to watch the other man move about like a restless ghost. With the baby cradled in his arms, Tazim tried shushing, tried rocking, tried cooing. Nothing appeared to work, and the child continued to irritably swings its arms and kick its legs.

"Having trouble?" Darim finally called out gently.

Freezing in place, Tazim whirled around, faced surprised and then immediately dark with recognition. "Don't patronize me," he warned, curling the child closer to his chest.

Darim only smiled in the dark. "Come here," he said, pushing himself off the wall, moving to meet the other man half way. "I didn't know you were married."

By now, Tazim, frustrated, was more than willing to give up claim on the still crying baby. "I'm not," he said hastily, and then stammered, "I-it's not mine!" He shot Darim a glare for implying it, even in jest. "Muhammad asked if I would watch her. He is running information." When Darim was close enough, Tazim lifted his arms so that the other man could take the child away. A sigh of relief came from him after; he looked haggard just from the experience.

"Ah," said Darim, raising the child up with two hands near his face. "Hello there," he said softly at the girl, and then he draped her against one of his shoulders. "It's a little late to be running information, don't you think?" he asked at Tazim, hand smoothing comfortingly over the child's back.

"It has to be done," remarked Tazim, and then he stared with realization. "How… did you do that?" he breathed, like he thought his very words would stir the now surprisingly quiet child.

"Practice," was Darim's response, and Tazim instantly felt a bit of shame. Tazim knew where the practice had come from. "She must be a fighter," Darim continued. "Being on your back makes you feel vulnerable sometimes, especially for babies, so if you hold them like this"—and he indicated by shrugging shoulder and baby faintly—"then they feel supported. In control."

Tazim looked astonished by Darim's knowledge of such a maternal duty. He hadn't been given a sibling, and he wondered how many times Darim had taken care of Sef, the supposedly meek brother. He wondered if it pained Darim to hold the girl, wondered how many times Darim remembered Sef in the wake of other things: the children running through Masyaf, the young novices, the other sister-in-laws who wandered the old village, in the mothers who wiped the mouths of their babies. Perhaps he could not fault Darim much for not returning, not returning to these phantoms, though he still did not agree with such a decision. "Oh."

"I'm going to greet the brothers at dawn," Darim said, still rubbing the back of the small girl. "Father wants them to stay in the fortress. You'll be up, right?"

"I'll be up," said Tazim tiredly, eyes downcast so that he missed the smile on Darim's lips.

"Get some rest," and it was almost instructive coming from Darim. "I'll take this one in, get her settled down." Darim turned to head back, got only a few steps before a voice stopped him.

"I accept."

Twisting, Darim looked back over his shoulder, over the child's dark head, questioningly. "You accept what?" he asked softly.

Tazim hesitated, slowly looked up afterward. "Your apology," he clarified, sounding just slightly embarrassed. "I accept your apology."

The second smile was faint, but it was there, just at the edge of Darim's freshly scarred lips. "Thank you," he said, and then turned again to continue his trek to the fortress. After a moment, Tazim jogged to catch up.


	7. Chapter 7

The light of the next morning blinded Darim when he cracked open his eyes. Slowly, his vision focused, and he jerked at the sudden melting together of a face above him.

"Late," hissed Tazim, yanking a pillow from beneath Darim's head. "You said that you would be up at dawn to greet them!" Tazim thrashed the pillow down over Darim's face. The older man grunted drowsily, hands up as a weak shield against the onslaught. "Get up. Lazy. Even novices younger than you have long since been awake," said Tazim. "Or should I have your father come and punish you like an insolent child?"

"Darim," and the low bark at the door was still enough to make Darim jump up a bit with instinct.

Both men turned their heads at the voice, but the only thing Altair left for them there was the brief glimpse of black robes. When Tazim looked back down, he was grinning somewhat deviously. Darim didn't look anywhere near as amused.

"I'm coming," said Darim, reaching up to push Tazim away, but the other man rolled into a stand out of reach.

Leisurely, Darim sat upright, and a hand was abruptly moved in front of his face. He glanced up the length of the arm to Tazim, eyes curious. Their gazes met, the easing together of amber and earth which locked with unspoken questions. Of all the people, Tazim was the one offering him a hand, offering him help getting up. Darim would like to make a joke about age being the catalyst for this aid, but he can see something else in the borders of Tazim's eyes. Respect. A silent acceptance. There was something there, etching Tazim's brows, etching the sweep of the almond-shaped eyes, that had not been there before. Brotherhood. Gradually, Darim raised his own arm, clasped his fingers against the other man's wrist. There was a pause, and then Tazim was pulling him up to his feet with a strong tug.

"I'll go with you," Tazim said.

Soon after, Altair was seeing the two of them off at the entrance to the fortress. They both flicked a hand in a wave, and Altair returned the gesture before the two of them turned away to head for the village. The yellow morning light swallowed them both in a warm glow, and again Altair thought maybe he was seeing an illusion of the past, maybe he was being teased viciously by the madness of the Apple.

It was Malik and him, both of them, it was Tazim and Darim, and then Malik, and then him, walking together, shoulder to shoulder, boots kicking up dirt. It was insanity: Malik's swagger; it was folly: the roll of his own shoulders in his youth; it was lunacy: their synchronized steps. And then it was reason: Tazim's steady walk; it was rationality: Darim's shrug; it was sensibility: steps acceptably out of line. It was his son, and it was Malik's son.

And they were following in their footsteps.


End file.
